Chapter 5: Vengeance Wears Two Faces

She meant Colonel Whitman. My old instructor at West Point. War hero. Close friend of my father. Treated me like family. Sent Hannah to help me at work.

I nodded.

"You’re not looking good. I’ll handle Martin. You go rest."

"Here, take your medicine." Hannah handed me a white pill from her pocket.

Took the pill. Washed it down.

Waited for Hannah to leave. Spat out the pill. Tossed it in the trash.

Did Hannah forget? Sleeping pills don’t work on me. Lately, she’s been giving me tranquilizers.

What’s with this girl? She’s been acting strange since I came back from vacation.

Tyler showed up, sweating. "Boss, the chef’s gone. And quick."

"Are you heading home? I’ll drive you."

Patted Tyler’s shoulder. Told him I’d walk.

Didn’t expect to see Quentin on the way home.

Dusk. Quentin moved like a shadow. I followed him—two alleys, along the river, to the refugee area. Refugees drifted like ghosts. Hungry eyes everywhere.

Quentin stopped at a shack. Two small graves. A board: ‘Grave of Little Billy and His Father.’

He turned to me. "Price, you’ll seek justice for them, right?"

"You’re the Weed Puller, right? Did you kill them?"

Quentin smiled, shook his head. "Price, did you erase your memory again?"

"What memory erasure?" Mind blank.

He smacked his lips. "Forget it."

"Little Billy’s dad reported it to the police. Got beaten to death. Thrown in the river. No case. No justice." He touched the wooden gravestone.

I’d heard about it. Refugees were like ants. The police had bigger cases.

"He asked me to help find Little Billy, but I was still too late..."

Quentin punched the tree by the grave, shaking down a few leaves.

"Billy was five. Smart kid. Helped me fire pottery for the refugees. Said he wanted to learn when he grew up."

"But he... he was made into eight dishes and a soup." Quentin’s eyes went red.

Quentin took all the food. Even what was in the stomachs. He was collecting Billy’s body.

"Quentin, I’m sorry about Billy. But no matter what Pembroke and Dorsey did, they should face the law. Not this."

I stuck to my principles. Tried to sound like a cop.

"Price, you haven’t changed a bit." Quentin smirked.

"If Little Billy were your child, would you still say that?" Quentin sneered.

"Wouldn’t you want to skin and gut those bastards yourself?"

I never thought about it. Just repeated my training.

"You know how many kids they ate? Eighty! Does your precinct know that?" Quentin stared.

I didn’t. Couldn’t look at him. The police hadn’t even opened a case. They were just refugee kids.

Maybe they sold their own kids. That’s what Wallace said once.

The powerful never understand the weak. If they haven’t seen it, it doesn’t touch them.

"Price, I’ve only seen it once. But if it were my kid, even if you shot them, it wouldn’t be enough. I’d want to give them double what the child suffered!"

Quentin roared like a judge from hell.

His words hit me. I got it—why the Weed Puller was a legend. He felt the pain of the weak. Took revenge.

"Quentin, you’re under arrest." I pointed my gun at him.

Sorry, Quentin. I promised. If you killed, I’d arrest you.

He laughed in anger.

"Price, you can’t catch me."

He threw his sickle. I dodged. Fired twice. Grazed his shoulder. He closed in, fast.

Trading blows, Quentin said, ‘Did you notice there was another diner that night?’

What does ‘also’ mean?

"I waited half an hour for him. Followed the messenger. Guess where he went?"

I hesitated. Let him block me.

"The police station."

I froze. He punched me in the gut. Doubled over.

Quentin leaned in. ‘Whoever wants your Weed Puller sketch most is the third person.’

"And, watch out for Hannah."

First two diners were dead. The third wanted the Weed Puller gone.

But why beware of Hannah? How much had Quentin found out?

"Quentin, I’ll catch you sooner or later." I called after him, clutching my stomach.

"After you solve the missing children case, do what you want with me." Quentin’s voice drifted from afar.

Another nightmare. Phone rang. Woke up drenched in sweat.

Tyler said Martin was dead. Suicide.

When I arrived, Hannah was doing the autopsy.

"Porcelain shards in the gut. Cut him up inside. Bled out. That’s what Hannah wrote."

"Where did the porcelain shards come from?" I gritted my teeth.